


Aftermath

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is limping again, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, fluff (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has played a particularly nasty game, and the boys are left to cope with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

John woke up that night at a quarter past Fuck This Shit AM, not from a nightmare like he expected, but from the sound of Sherlock’s violin which was worse. It seemed the violin in the living room had copied the events of the day before and turned them into notes dancing back to the bedroom where they hung about, floating in the room for him and all the world to hear. There to stay.

Groaning, he buried his face in his pillow, asking any deity who would deign to listen _why_. Not why something, or somehow, or somewhere, but just _why._ The weight of the word pressed down far more heavily than three letters ought to. He could feel it in him, an extra organ pumping grief and fear and most of all anger through his body like a new and very painful sort of blood. For one short moment an irrational anger bubble drifted up, aimed at Mycroft for taking care of everything and sorting the whole mess out so damn quickly and efficiently when it would have been so much more _satisfying_ to take matters into his own hands. The next moment, the bubble was gone, leaving only a bone deep weariness.

The violin music continued, unabatedly. John groaned again, decided that since the day had already gone to hell, the night might as well follow and limped out of bed, cursing the November cold that had seeped through their flat.

The only light in the living room was the soft orange glow of the street lamps. John paused at the door, observing the silhouette of Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace, eyes closed, softly swaying with the music, the perfect picture of a musician finding comfort in his art. John allowed himself one moment to be fooled before he consciously started noticing how much the music was not helping Sherlock. He wished, oh how he wished he could just pretend Sherlock would play on for another hour, crash down on the sofa and wake the next morning with a crick in his neck but mentally speaking reasonable healthy.

Unfortunately he had become too good in reading Sherlock’s posture to fool himself for long. His back was rigid and the swaying was not so much that of a willowy reed in a light breeze as it was an ancient oak during a storm. Stiff. Creaking. The skin on the knuckles of the hand that held the violin was stretched to its limit. His eyes were not closed, but screwed shut. John didn’t know how long the man had been playing, but it clearly had been long enough.

He limped into the room and instantly the music stopped. Sherlock turned around, observed him head to toe and obviously did not like what he saw.

‘You should be resting,’ he said. ‘You’re exhausted.’

John’s mouth smiled. ‘Pot. Kettle.’

Sherlock shrugged and turned around, ready to start playing again. Before he could lift the bow, however, John had limped up behind him and snatched both bow and violin out of his hands. He put them aside, answering the Sherlock Death Glare™ thrown in his general direction with a Watson So Sue Me™.

‘I don’t need rest, Sherlock,’ he said while wrapping his warm arms around an icy frame (for how long _had_ Sherlock been playing?) and resting his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘I need comfort from another human being and from the sound of that violin of yours, you could do with some comfort too so you’ll just have to bear with me here.’

At first, Sherlock froze until John felt he was hugging a concrete pillar. Soon though, he thawed until John found himself with both arms full of very distressed Consulting Detective who now trembled all over and clutched at him like a drowning man would do at a piece of driftwood.  John, automatically falling back into comfort mode, held him just as tight, stroked his back, pressed kisses into the thick black curls and talked in a low, soft murmur about how everything was fine and how they were both going to be all right. He’d half expected Sherlock to scoff at the blatant lies and the sentiment, but to his surprise they only seemed to help him relax. Slowly the tension seeped out of the lanky body, taking John’s with it until both of them could breathe again.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked a few centuries later. Sherlock rumbled something affirmative into his shoulder, but John was not ready to let go yet.

‘Care to talk to me now?’ he asked. This last day, Sherlock’s entire conversation with John had existed of three sentences, only two of which were coherent. The rumble took a little longer this time, but when it came it too was affirmative. Relief blew John’s last traces of stress away.

After a short intermezzo in which John told Sherlock to turn the heating up (‘I don’t care if you’re part polar bear, I prefer my blood a little more liquid than a milkshake’) and made one cup of tea and one cup of coffee, they both settled down on the sofa.

‘What do you want me to tell you?’ Sherlock asked, clutching his coffee in both hands.

John sipped his tea. ‘Whatever you want to tell me.’

‘You’re not helping.’

John didn’t answer. Sherlock sighed and nipped his coffee. ‘Fine.’

 

 

 

ooOoo

_They were at a crime scene in Chelsea,_ _him and Lestrade. The DI was pissed, because what kind of day was this to kill someone and more so, to send him out to investigate a murder with a Sergeant and a Forensics Officer who were at the moment ‘on a break’ e.g. ready to drink each others’ blood and a Consulting Detective who absolutely did nothing to improve the mood. And it was freezing._

_The case was an easy one. The woman had been deadly jealous with her husband’s female best friend and had staged her suicide so that the girl would seem the murderer. It would have been clever if she hadn’t overdone it by hiding the supposed murder weapon in the girl’s purse. By the time he’d finished explaining everything and pointing out all the evidence twice, Sherlock had been frustrated out of his mind, and he was just in the middle of a particularly venomous observation about Sally Donovan’s new lover when the clocks struck eleven and she clasped her hand over his mouth. He actually stopped talking out of sheer surprise, only to start scowling when she mimed ‘give me just two minutes’._

_Three minutes later, a call came from the radio in Lestrade’s car. Without hearing a word, Sherlock immediately knew that something was very, very Wrong: Lestrade’s face was ashen and he slumped in the car seat like a stringless string puppet. When Sherlock stalked over to find out what happened, the DI started to look even worse._

_Behind them, Anderson, who had been looking up some news fact on his phone to win an argument started swearing. Lestrade lifted his head and sprang into action. ‘Anderson, since you’ve obviously just found out what happened, you may inform the others. Sherlock, with me. The rest of you, prepare to wrap this up ASAP, it seems we’ve got ourselves another one. God help us.’_

_They walked off to a private corner while everyone gathered round Anderson’s smart phone. Sherlock had already arrived at a conclusion before Lestrade opened his mouth._

_‘Something happened, something very bad and something concerning me. You said ‘another one’, so it’s murder. No ordinary murder though, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. It’s big, because it’s already on the news and I’ve never heard Anderson swear like that. The main event taking place today is the Remembrance ceremony at Whitehall, which is happening right now. So, someone was murdered at the ceremony, during the two minutes of silence, and now you’re going to tell me all the details because_ John is there _.’_

_He surprised himself by whining the last three words. Lestrade shook his head in misery and motioned him to sit down on a window sill. The sense of impending doom grew stronger._

_Lestrade didn’t even bother to tell him he was right.  ‘Roof sniper. At Whitehall. Took someone out during the two minutes of silence. Just like that. But Sherlock… look, there is no confirmed ID, not yet. But the first description of the victim…’ The DI breathed in. ‘First description is that of a short, blonde Army veteran, about 35 years of age.’_

_The world went wrong._

The rest of the story John had already seen for himself or heard from Mycroft, but he listened as Sherlock told him about the race to Whitehall, John not answering his phone, the utter chaos in the streets, the panic and the frenzy of the people around him running away and hurting themselves and others in the process, the noise, the screaming and shouting and yelling and wailing because nobody knew exactly what had happened or what was happening or what would happen next. However, imagination and rumour are far better at causing terror than reality is and so, by the time a few people calmed down and started asking the right kind of questions, Sebastian Moran had already left without a trace.

John listened and didn’t feel any resentment when Sherlock told him of the overwhelming, knee-buckling, earth-shattering relief when he saw the body of Bill Murray, also formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, and also short, blonde and about 35. He’d saved John’s life in Afghanistan and they’d been mates ever since. Bill had taken longer to be invalided home, however, and had only been back minus one hand for four months. They had been standing next to each other, immersed in memories of days and comrades gone by, when, without warning, Bill had collapsed with a red ruin where the back of his head used to be.

_His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he had could make a very educated guess as to who it would be._

_‘O dear,’ said a sing-song voice, ‘did you know two people could look so alike? I would not let your pet out of sight like that if I were you, you might lose him.’_

_Sherlock did not waste time or breath with an elegant reply. ‘Did you really think you could get away with this?’_

_Jim chuckled. ‘I’ve done worse. I don’t see why not.’_

‘No, I don’t suppose he would,’ John mused.

_Next to call was Mycroft._

_‘My office. Now.’_

_Three words. If it hadn’t been already obvious, that would have been enough to tell Sherlock all about the amount of stress his brother was in. He didn’t waste any time arguing, but hung up and started pushing his way through the crowd. John had not stayed by the side of his fallen comrade; in fact he was nowhere to be seen which meant he either was with Mycroft and safe or he was with Moriarty and then Mycroft would be one of the very few people who could get him back safely._

 

 

 

ooOoo

At this point Sherlock stopped, apparently feeling he’d said enough. They had slumped against each other in the mean time, neither particularly wishing to relive the horror of the day on their own. John’s head rested on Sherlock’s chest with an arm wrapped protectively around him.

‘Thank God for older brothers and shady government organizations,’ he muttered. Sherlock didn’t respond, just rested his chin on John’s head. The room grew quiet. John had closed his eyes and felt himself almost relaxed enough to fall asleep by the warmth and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat in his ear when Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he started up ramrod straight.

Sherlock glanced at it, half smiling. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said, putting it on speaker phone. ‘I take it your calling at this hour means you’ve got him?’

‘We’ve got him,’ Mycroft confirmed. ‘Both James Moriarty and Colonel Moran are currently enjoying an exceptionally rare variant of Her Majesty’s hospitality while the rest of their acquaintances are being rounded up as we speak.’

‘That was quick,’ John remarked. ‘It’s only been sixteen hours.’

Mycroft’s shrug was almost audible. ‘He crossed a line.’

‘What, by traumatizing the nation in sending me a message? Yes, I thought he might,’ Sherlock said. ‘Well done, brother. Get some sleep.’ He hung up and looked at John. ‘How’s your leg?’

John rubbed his thigh. The flashes of stinging pain he’d felt during the day had by now reduced to a dull throbbing. He imagined it would still be a few days before he would be able to walk properly again, although he didn’t need the crutches Mycroft had provided him with that morning anymore.

‘I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘Will you go and see him?’

Sherlock pondered this for a while. ‘No,’ he answered eventually. ‘Getting my attention is exactly what he wants. But he broke the rules and I’m not playing his game anymore. Let Mycroft deal with him.’

Now it was John’s turn to pull Sherlock close. ‘Thank you,’ he said, feeling ten stone lighter and placing a kiss on top of his flatmate’s head. It would still take time before he could fully deal with Bill’s death and the blasphemy of shooting a man just come home from war only to get to the partner of the man standing next to him, but if the result was the end of Moriarty and his web, then he could cope. Eventually.

‘That was some good advice you gave your brother just now, you know,’ he said after a while. ‘About getting some sleep.’

Sherlock hummed. ‘If you say so, Doctor.’

 

 

 

ooOoo

The next day and Mrs. Hudson found them lying fast asleep on the sofa, entangled in such a way that surgery seemed the only option in the unlikely event either of them wanted to get out of it separately. Mrs. Hudson retreated quietly, leaving the breakfast tray with the newspaper on the landing. The newspaper did not in fact bring any news, although there were two interesting head lines. The first one obviously read SOLDIER SHOT AT REMEMBRANCE CEREMONY, and the following article was filled with questions, accusations and assumptions that they both either would scoff at or cringe over later that day.

The second one was less noticeable and was printed on the fifth page. It was fairly short, because it was hardly news. After all, lots of people went missing every day and the newspaper had better things to report than the mystery surrounding the disappearance of a story teller.

**Author's Note:**

> [De Damschreewer (Dam screamer)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIqa8FxIzXk)
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> At 4 May 2010, a confused man started shouting during the Remembrance Ceremony at the Dam in the Netherlands, causing a widespread panic. No one was killed, but a lot of people got hurt. This was the main inspiration for this fic. Though I have never witnessed the Ceremony at Whitehall, I imagined the Dutch and British Ceremony would be similar. If it isn't and I have made blatant errors, please feel free to correct me!


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